


Come a Little Bit Closer

by winterkill



Series: Cop!Brienne AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Face-Sitting, Smut, but mostly just porn, featuring cop!Brienne and a temporarily homeless Jaime, still mostly the plot of Zootopia, technically a quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: “You’reshacking upwith a cop?"“It’s notexactlylike that. I mean, it looks like that, but there’s extenuating circumstances.”His brother laughs and shakes his head; they’re on video chat, even though Tyrion is in King’s Landing.“The brother I know wouldn’t be caught dead within a mile radius of anyone involved in law enforcement. How are you sitting on her couch and not in the clink?”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Cop!Brienne AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715098
Comments: 75
Kudos: 287





	Come a Little Bit Closer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my fic [_I Hold You Like a Weapon_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503570). You don't have to read it first, but this will make more sense if you do. Plus, it's filled with smut, and I think that's probably why you clicked on this one, too.
> 
> Technically, this is a quarantine fic. I've read several where the sexual tension is based on the characters being stuck in close proximity. I wanted to vary that up a bit, so have some essential employee Brienne and temporarily homeless Jaime.
> 
> I hope all of you are staying safe and healthy! Enjoy the smut.

“You’re _shacking up_ with a cop?"

“It’s not _exactly_ like that. I mean, it _looks_ like that, but there’s extenuating circumstances.”

His brother laughs and shakes his head; they’re on video chat, even though Tyrion is in King’s Landing.

“The brother I know wouldn’t be caught dead within a mile radius of _anyone_ involved in law enforcement. How are you sitting on her couch and not in the clink?”

“I gave her a tip,” Jaime explains, “Well, it was a bit self-serving. I got tangled up in the Bloody Mummers, and didn’t want to end up as fish food.”

Tyrion winces, “Do you still have both hands?”

Jaime wiggles his fingers in front of the camera, then switches his phone to his other hand and repeats it. “All fingers accounted for; you’ll have to take my word my feet are intact as well.”

“And that’s it?” Tyrion’s a bit pixelated on the video feed, but Jaime sees the skepticism well enough. “One tip off, and all your misdeeds are forgiven?”

“I wanted to find a way to start again.” Tyrion won’t understand--he’s wanted their father’s recognition his entire life, while Jaime ran from it. “She made me think I didn’t need to erase myself to do it. I had to promise to stay on the straight and narrow, though.”

Brienne's sole condition--Jaime knew it was in his best interest to comply. Work was important to her, and as a rookie, she didn’t want a personal life that would hurt her reputation.

Tyrion laughs, “What kind of woman put _you_ on a leash?”

“A good one.”

Brienne’s faith in him is new, and wonderful, and Jaime is trying very, _very_ hard not to wreck it. It has him a bit on edge, especially now that he’s confined to her space. He paces around her apartment and starts to see how she orders her life. There’s a story in the dishes on the drying rack by the sink, in the three books with receipts marking her place on the coffee table. Jaime knows her space better than he knows her, and it’s _weird,_ uncomfortable, and somehow he doesn’t want it to end.

“And now with all this quarantine bullshit, you’re locked in her kennel,” Tyrion says, “Regretting you didn’t come stay with me?”

In a horrible convergence of unfortunate events, Jaime’s lease ended _right_ when the pandemic began, and good fucking luck touring apartments when the entire country is on lockdown. That, and Jaime’s sudden need for an above board and upstanding profession became a bit of a challenge when _all_ the stores are closed.

“Tyrion,” Jaime isn’t going to bullshit his brother, “last time I stayed with you, I listened to you having a fucking threesome in the room next door.”

“That was _one_ time, Jaime! It’s not as hot as people make it out to be--someone always feels neglected. Besides, who do you think I’m bringing over in this fucking mess? My cock is going to fall off before this shit is through.”

“I’m _sure_ you’re finding a way to entertain yourself.” Tyrion opens his mouth and Jaime holds a hand in front of the camera. _“Please_ don’t tell me the details.”

“Is your cop girlfriend hot at least?”

 _Girlfriend._ Jaime’s never called Brienne that. _Is it true? Would she let me?_ It’s sort of a moot point at present, but once they can go outside again, it might matter. He knows what Tyrion means by _hot_ \--a hourglass figure, long hair, giant breasts. Brienne isn’t any of those things, and she’s better for it. There’s a million women in cocktail dresses, but only Brienne has eyes like the ocean on a summer day.

“I’m happy with her,” Jaime feels a grin creeping onto his face.

Tyrion makes an exaggerated gagging sound, _“Gods,_ Jaime, you look like a lovesick puppy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I won’t paraphrase Father’s favorite saying about Lannisters and paying debts, but make sure you earn your keep.”

“Is this our new barter economy? Trading sex for a roof over my head.” 

“It’s the world’s oldest profession, after all.”

Jaime doesn’t stop the grin this time, “There’s no need to worry on that front.”

* * *

_Exhausted_ doesn’t begin to cover what Brienne is feeling. 

She was exhausted this morning, by the end of her shift she’s hit some elusive plateau where she feels a bit like she’s floating out of her body. It also makes her prone to laughing at inappropriate things, which will _definitely_ freak her coworkers out.

“You never laugh at _anything,”_ Hyle told her, once, after a date.

“It’s not that,” she replied, “It’s just that you’re not funny.”

 _Was that the last time we went out?_ Close to it, definitely. Today, though, Brienne feels sympathy for Hyle Hunt just as she does the rest of her colleagues. She also wants to bathe in bleach when she gets home.

It’s the end of her fifth ten-hour shift when she returns to her apartment, dropping her keys in the tray by the door before leaning against it and closing her eyes.

“I wish people would follow the damned guidelines and _stay inside_. There’s no need to walk your dog that many times or go to a thrice-damned coffee shop _every_ morning.”

Brienne’s gray tabby cat, Galladon, swirls around her ankles and chirps. She’s used to telling Galladon about her day because she lives alone and has no one else to tell. Sometimes, she’ll get together with Sansa or Margaery, but not since everything went to shit. Besides, she can’t always talk about what goes on at work, and sometimes she just doesn’t want to.

“Well, _I_ stayed here all day,” says a voice, “because I’m a good listener and a responsible citizen.”

 _Jaime._ Brienne forgets, when she’s too deep in her routine, that she offered to let him crash on her couch for a few days. The few days turned into three weeks and showed no sign of an end date.

“Bullshit,” Brienne opens her eyes to find Jaime sprawled on her couch like he was born there. “You’re the farthest from a responsible citizen I can think of.”

“You wound me, my lady.” Jaime stands up, “I ordered take out; let me reheat some for you.”

“That would be…” Brienne doesn’t have the language for how amazing that sounds. “I’m gonna shower...again.”

She showered at the precinct after changing out of her uniform, but an innate sense of paranoia about her commute leads her to do it again and launder the clothes she barely wore.

“Yes, sir,” Jaime gives her a mock salute before she closes the bathroom door and boils herself.

The shower helps a little--the hot water soothes her tired muscles, and by the time she gets out she’s relaxed and clean, if not more awake. When she exits the bathroom wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, towel around her head, there’s a bowl of noodles from the Yi Ti takeout place around the block.

Brienne picks up her chopsticks and looks at Jaime; he’s sitting across from her, elbows on the table, chin resting in his hands. 

“Why’d you pick this?”

“You’ve ordered it three times since I started crashing here,” he answers, “I figured it was your comfort food, and that you probably wanted to support the sweet, elderly couple who run it.”

“I..do,” Brienne takes a bite of the noodles and tries not to let Jaime see that her eyes are burning like she’s going to cry. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and they’re spicy and delicious, as usual, even from the microwave. “That was really thoughtful of you,” she whispers after a few bites. 

“They’re _really_ good, so it was a bit self-serving. It was hard to just eat half. And you’re, you know, out there keeping society running while I bum on your couch.”

All she can think about is how Hyle refused to try them because the ingredients seemed “weird.”

“You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Jaime chuckles, “I’d never break quarantine while living with a cop.”

“If only everyone else listened like you do.”

* * *

“Wanna go to bed?”

Brienne shakes her head, “I’m tired, but I want to relax more than I want to sleep. Is that weird?”

“Not at all.”

Jaime, who’s become almost as intimately familiar with the contents of the streaming services Brienne subscribes to as he is with Brienne herself, queues up an action movie he found earlier. It looks fun and mindless. Brienne also looks a bit like she’s suffering from decision fatigue.

They sit on the couch together; Brienne on one end and Jaime on the other. Gallodon sits on the couch arm, and Brienne scratches his head. After thirty minutes of mostly silence, the best way Jaime can describe how he feels is _aware._ They’re not touching, but they _could_ be. Brienne seems a _bit_ on edge because she comes into contact with so many people, but Jaime isn’t terribly worried. He’s only left her apartment once in the last ten days--he walked to the grocery so Brienne wouldn’t have to worry about it. She looked at him, gratitude shining through, and Jaime would brave the subway at rush hour if it would bring her a measure of peace.

She’s leaning against the arm of the couch staring at the television--a motorcycle chase scene through what looks like Dorne.

_It’s like we’re practicing social distancing accidentally._

“Jaime, how was your day?”

“Fine,” he answers. They’ve had a lot of conversations like this--feigned normalcy. Only their relationship, or _whatever_ it is, isn’t normal, and the outside world has been flipped on its head. Jaime just can’t do it again. “You know, not really--I’m _bored,_ which I know won’t kill me. There’s only so much cleaning and TV and reading and masturbating a man can do. Isn’t there an old wives tale, something about hairy palms or going blind?”

Brienne blushes, evident in the glow from the television, and it’s the best thing, and maybe the _only_ thing Jaime has seen in a week. He hoped she would and wasn't disappointed. Hopefully, she’s not disgusted by the thought of him jerking off in her apartment. Jaime almost explains how he doesn’t make a mess, but thinks better of it.

“I’m sorry--” Brienne starts, but clearly doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for or even if she should be.

“No,” Jaime shakes his head, “I thought it would be funny. I guess it didn’t land.”

The fact is, they haven’t fucked since Brienne’s round of five ten-hour shifts started. Jaime isn’t complaining, not when Brienne is keeping the city running, but if he’s not fucking Brienne he’s not sure _what_ he’s supposed to be doing with Brienne. Fucking was kind of their _thing_ \---well, for a couple months, at least.

To Jaime’s great surprise, Brienne _does_ laugh, and it’s clear after a few seconds that she’s not going to quit. She’s giggling now, resting her cheek against Galladon and wiping tears from her eyes. 

“I didn’t realize the thought of me rubbing one out was so funny.”

“It-it’s not that,” Brienne takes a deep breath to compose herself. “This entire thing--it’s _ridiculous,_ isn’t it? Like what is even going on right now? It’s so wild out there. _Gods,_ I’m glad it’s my weekend.”

“Hey,” Jaime doesn’t have a ton of experience with what he’s about to do, but he’s going to make an attempt. “Brienne, come here.”

Brienne looks at him, surprised--she’ll hold him after sex, and Jaime loves it and misses it, but they don’t touch much outside of that. They also _definitely_ don’t talk about it. Jaime finds, lately, that he wants that kind of unassuming contact. She moves down the couch, and Jaime does what he would want, what few have ever done, and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

The movie keeps playing--the villain is giving an unrealistically long monologue. If he wants his heist to work, he should be running, not pontificating about his plan. Jaime would’ve been halfway to his getaway vehicle by now.

Well, in his old life, at least; his new life is undecided.

Brienne resting her head on his chest might be a start; Jaime wraps his other arm around her to see where it goes.

* * *

Brienne stays there until the credits roll.

The last ten minutes of the movie confuse her; she must’ve dozed off, but she doesn’t really care that much. She’s weary, and confused, and so, _so_ glad she doesn’t have to leave her apartment for two days. Jaime probably would love to go outside. Breakfast on her tiny balcony would be a good compromise.

She’s really, _really_ not used to being held.

Jaime’s muscular chest is under her cheek, and his arms are around her. He’s not as strong as she is, but he holds her like it doesn’t bother him. They fuck like it doesn’t bother him, like he _likes_ that about her. Brienne doesn’t know when the word _fucking_ became what she called it to herself. 

...But _now_ she’s thinking about it.

“Do you really…” She’s _really_ not good at the explicit stuff. “When I’m at work, and you-- _you know,_ what do you...use?”

_Think about? Look at?_

“Hmm, I don’t take your meaning.”

“You do,” Brienne replies, smacking his chest, “You’re just being an ass.”

“An ass you _like.”_

If only that was _all_ Brienne liked.

 _“Fine,”_ Brienne sits up, suddenly quite awake. “If you spend the day jacking off in _my_ apartment, what are you thinking of?”

“Recently,” Jaime shrugs, “Just you.”

 _Well, now my face is on fire._ She’s willing to take a bullet to the chest but can barely ask a question like this, even to the person she’s fucking. She's twenty-three, and it’s ridiculous that she’s still _so_ shy. “Is there...anything specific?”

Brienne finds that she doesn't hate the image of Jaime sprawled on her couch, cock in his hand, waiting for her to come home. That anyone would do that, waiting for her, thinking of _her._

“Today, yeah. Want me to tell you?”

The credits are still rolling, so only a few minutes have passed; it feels like a lifetime since Jaime started looking at her with such unmasked hunger. Brienne swallows the lump in her throat; she’s suddenly _very_ thirsty and tries to keep her eyes on his.

“I--” Jaime oozes seduction, and she just...doesn’t. “Y-yeah, I’d like you to tell me.”

His expression changes to a blinding, boyish grin; he raises his arms, stretches, then locks them together behind his head. _“Weeeeell,_ it’s a long shot, but the precinct doesn’t happen to let you bring your handcuffs home, do they?”

Brienne’s brain screeches to a grinding halt, “You want to _roleplay?”_

Jaime’s laughter is so effusive that Brienne fails at stopping herself from smiling. Then, he’s touching her hip to guide her until she’s straddling his lap. He’s learned things over the last couple months--that she doesn’t _want_ to retreat, but she might feel self-conscious and make the attempt regardless. Jaime puts his hands on her hips and rubs his thumbs back and forth over her leggings. 

He knows what she’s never said.

“That _wasn’t_ what I was thinking,” Jaime says, “Although, I wouldn’t be opposed. That day in the alley when we met, you sounded _very_ forceful when you ordered me to put my hands behind my head. When you shoved me in the backseat of the car, I realized how _strong_ you are.”

Brienne really, _really_ doesn’t understand Jaime sometimes.

“...I’m not sure if I want to pretend to do my job right now,” Brienne _almost_ thinks she sounds like she’s teasing him; she'd like to get there, someday. “It’s like...a porn version of our first meeting.”

“Of course,” Jaime laughs, “That’s not what you want to lose yourself in.”

Jaime kisses her, fingers sliding over her hips to squeeze her backside. He uses his grip to slide her forward until there’s no space between them. Brienne lets out a tiny gasp of pleasure at the friction it creates. The gasp is an invitation for Jaime to brush his tongue against hers. The kiss turns heated, and Brienne cups his face in her hands to steady herself. She’s discovered she likes holding him in place, with her hands or her thighs or her words. Jaime, who seems to have spent the decades of his life running from things, stops for her. Brienne moves her hips against his, and it’s Jaime’s turn to stumble, breaking the kiss. He drags his teeth over her earlobe, and it feels like a bolt of lightning shooting through her.

Brienne means to ask what Jaime _did_ intend the handcuffs for, but she’s forgotten about them entirely.

* * *

Jaime’s done a lot of lying.

Sometimes, the person deserved it. Or, at least that’s how Jaime justified it. It wasn’t bad to swindle a shitty person; it was comeuppance. Sometimes, Jaime lied to get out of something and hurt someone in the process. 

Most of the time, he lies to himself.

Tyrion said, once, that for all Jaime’s ability to read and observe others, when he turned inward it was like looking at a cement wall. Jaime told his brother to fuck off and hadn’t spoken to him for several weeks. A petty, dramatic reaction, especially when Tyrion spoke a truth Jaime just wasn’t willing to admit.

He’s admitted it, now--to himself and to Brienne, in a way, when he promised to tell her only the truth. The challenge is how does Jaime know what his truth is?

He decides to start with something easy.

Brienne’s beneath him on the bed, sweatshirt discarded on her floor. Her comforter matches her eyes, which made Jaime smile the first time he looked in her room. Now, he’s lost in the constellation of the freckles on her pale skin, wondering if charting them can guide him to the truth he’s looking for.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, “how overwhelming it is to want you like I do.” 

_The feeling is too big._ Jaime presses his lips against a cluster of freckles at her collarbone; he’ll kiss them all if Brienne doesn’t get frustrated and stop him. Her patience varies. Jaime maps her with his lips, stopping to nip at one of Brienne’s nipples so she arches off the bed and grabs his hair. She might let him continue, or she might get irritated by his pace and flip them over--either way is fine.

“I--” she stutters, and Jaime glows with pride at having caused it, “I agreed, didn’t I? We didn’t even know each other, and they’d _definitely_ suspend me if they knew--”

“You fucked an informant in a police safehouse?”

Brienne blushes, even though she’s half-naked, and Jaime still has his lips near her breast. She sighs and shuts her eyes, “It’s almost too much, isn’t it, being cooped up like this?”

There’s a spot on Brienne’s side that makes her laugh, so Jaime goes there, and she smacks him in the arm when he scrapes his beard against her soft skin. “It leaves plenty of time to come up with fantasies.”

Brienne reacts so gloriously to everything. She’s shy, and there’s patches of uncertainty, but they grow together, and it’s _fun._ Fucking is fucking, and it feels good, but Jaime’s never found such delight in the lead up. She divested him of his shirt long ago--it might’ve landed on her floor lamp. Brienne hasn’t reached for his cock, and Jaime doesn’t mind the wait. It’s enough, for now, to have her hand between his shoulder blades as they kiss.

“The handcuffs,” Brienne taps him on the shoulder so Jaime will look up at her.

“Ah, you remember.”

“Stop smirking,” she chides--it doesn’t work. “Tell me.”

“Officer,” Jaime tries to keep his voice level, “Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

Now, Jaime cackles and flops onto the bed next to her; he doesn’t mention what effect her command has on his cock. Brienne certainly knows. Instead, he reaches up and grabs the wooden slat of her headboard and raises his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Brienne’s eyes widen, _“Oh._ I--”

“I can’t keep my hands to myself,” Jaime lowers his voice, “but I want to make you come with just my mouth. _That’s_ what I was thinking about while you were at work. You, above me, riding my face while I fuck you with my tongue.”

“We have to sign our equipment back in at the end of our shifts.” Brienne turns a shade of red Jaime’s never witnessed; he also notices the way her breathing picks up. 

_She’s interested._ Rarely does she admit so verbally, but Jaime is learning her tells. Her lips are reddened from kissing, so Jaime kisses her again. “Then I’ll do my best not to spoil my own game.” Jaime smirks, “Maybe we can order some…”

“They’ll take _forever_ to get here--a non-essential item, right?”

 _Ever practical._ In Jaime’s cooped up mind, they seem _quite_ essential. Objectively, of course, that’s not that case. 

“We’ll make do, then. It’d be _so_ fucking good, Brienne--please let me.”

She lifts her hips to pull down the leggings. Jaime gets a stupid grin on his face when Brienne’s underwear go along, too. He stares at her for a moment, admiring the strength of her, her muscular legs, the softness of her skin. He’s left traces of himself all over her--places where he’s bitten, or sucked, or left reddened skin from his beard. Finally, his eyes land on her cunt, hidden from his gaze by her closed thighs.

“You’re staring,” she sounds a bit embarrassed, as she always does.

“I know.”

Trepidation comes through in all Brienne’s movements; she rises to her knees, and Jaime pats the comforter beside him as an invitation. When she straddles him, she’s not close enough to reach. Jaime touches her hips to guide her forward until Brienne braces her hands on her headboard.

“You gotta get _close,”_ Jaime instructs. 

“I don’t want to smother you.”

He laughs, “Yeah, you kinda do if you want it to work.”

Brienne is pliant after that. Jaime keeps his hand on her hip, swiping his thumb over the skin in a gesture that seems to soothe her. Her cunt is inches from his face--the sight and smell of her overtakes all other sensation. He could look at this for a while without taking the next step.

“Jaime?”

“You get so wet for me. You like this idea, too, don’t you?”

“Moreso if you’d actually _do_ something.”

Her irritation makes him smile.

It’s not the same as being handcuffed to the bed, but Jaime can’t really reach Brienne with his hands. When he masturbated to the fantasy that afternoon, Brienne kept him pinned to the bed and didn’t let him up until she came, and Jaime’s beard was covered with her. He got off on the idea that he’d done that for her.

“Maybe I’ll just look.”

A hollow threat because in the next breath Jaime makes contact, sliding his tongue through the wetness gathered at her entrance. He does it again and again until Brienne answers the action with a breathy moan. She’s probably gripping the headboard. Jaime nuzzles against her, inhaling, before using his tongue to push into her. It’s better to drive her to the edge with this for a moment, savoring the way her thighs start to shake. When she tries to retreat, Jaime finds the best use of his hands--grabbing her ass and holding her against him.

“J-Jaime.”

When he opens his eyes, Brienne is looking down at him. He pulls away, kissing her thigh before speaking. “Don’t hold back; I’m the one who suggested it.”

Brienne’s breathing is shaky, but she nods. We Jaime buries his face in her cunt a second time, he holds her still and goes straight for her clit. WIthin a couple flicks of his tongue, Brienne rolls her hips just the slightest bit, grinding into his face. The gesture makes Jaime’s cock ache in his jeans; he could come, maybe, just from pleasuring her while she rides him. Brienne, with all her gentle strength, coming undone with her thighs wrapped around his head. Jaime scraps his teeth over her clit, and Brienne _does_ come, shaking, with a moan that sounds almost like a sob.

Jaime likes to be thorough, so he keeps going while Brienne rides it out, enjoying the desperate way she says his name as he slowly passes over her with his tongue or kisses her thighs. He can breathe easier when she moves to the bed beside him, but what a way that would be to die.

Because Brienne is generous and attentive, she reaches for the button on his jeans. Jaime helps her and tosses the rest of his clothes on the floor. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand as she reaches for his aching cock.

He shakes his head, “Gimme a minute. I wanna be able to fuck you and last longer than a thirteen-year-old.”

“Oh, okay.”

Brienne stretches her legs out in front of her on the bed, and Jaime rests his head on her thigh and closes his eyes. His need for her is so intense that his blood is practically boiling. Brienne runs one hand through his hair and starts touching him with the other. She traces a fingertip along his collarbones and down one arm. It’s quite relaxing until she lightly pinches one of his nipples before rubbing back and forth over it.

Then, Jaime’s eyes shoot open; she’s looking down at him, amused.

“Next time,” she glances away shyly, “If I faced the other way, we could both--”

The idea crossed Jaime’s mind, but it’s good in theory and ungainly in execution. They’re almost the same height, though.

Jaime grins up at her, “Have I told you I like the way you think?”

* * *

Brienne never considered herself a terribly playful person. Dour and mulish, sure, but never fun. It’s a feeling she’s carried since she was old enough to have social awareness. The first people who seemed to enjoy her company were Margaery and Sansa.

She has a knack for teasing Jaime, though.

It doesn’t bother her that Jaime asks for a break; she feels a bit raw, like her nerve endings have been scrubbed bare. Brienne also takes the chance to repay Jaime in kind. She likes touching him, and by the time she’s done, Jaime is gasping, forehead pressed against her stomach.

“You’re _cruel._ I thought cops were supposed to _help_ citizens, not torture them into insanity.”

“You might _like_ the torture,” Brienne keeps her tone serious, “You were willing to let me handcuff you to the bed not an hour ago.”

“I’m _still_ willing,” Jaime reclines against the pillows lining her headboard. He stretches and puts his hands behind his head. 

_Damn him for being so beautiful and so smug._ “I’ll...see what I can do.” Jaime’s goal seems to be to get Brienne to violate a dozen department policies.

“For now, I see no reason to deviate from our theme for the evening.”

The box of condoms in Brienne’s bedside table is comically large. Jaime brought it from his run to the store, and Brienne raised her eyebrows so high they touched the ceiling. He said _what else is there to do when we’re stuck inside?_

Then, work stressed her out, and they hadn’t used that many, which seems folly because Brienne’s more relaxed now than she’s been in a week. She tosses the condom, and it lands on his chest; Jaime wastes no time in putting it on.

Not that Brienne wants to think of Hyle, but he’d _never_ let her be on top--he’d think it emasculating. Brienne spent so much of their relationship trying to squash herself into a box she didn’t fit in. Jaime watches her intently, hands still behind his head, as she positions him and sinks down onto his cock. 

His eyes flutter shut, and he smiles, “Do your thing.”

The pleasure in Jaime’s expression makes a warm feeling start in Brienne’s chest. That he wants her to find the rhythm, to be the one who tightens her thighs around his hips and makes both of them feel good. It was awkward for her the first time because Brienne didn’t think anyone would want that from her. It takes a few rocks of her hips, but Jaime opens his eyes and, as predicted, gets handsy.

Brienne could tell him to keep them to himself, and Jaime would probably mind her, but she doesn’t want to.

“You feel,” he anchors his hands on her hips, “ _so_ good.”

The simplicity of the declaration makes Brienne blush; she hides it by leaning over Jaime and burying her face in the pillow next to his head. It’s almost easier to call it _fucking_ and to focus only on the physical. Brienne can control that--her hips meet his, and there’s burst after burst of pleasure.

But Jaime is touching her hair, and kissing her cheek, and whispering something sweet into her ear that’s only meant for her to hear. Everything is just between them, and the chaos of the outside world melts into nothing.

* * *

It’s taken nearly forty years and fucking Brienne Tarth on a couch in a safehouse to admit it, but Jaime Lannister is a clingy motherfucker. When he’s spent and wilted like a flower that needs water, Brienne cradles him against her chest, and he wants to stay there until he dies.

He doesn’t, of course--after an amount of time he deems borders on unreasonable, he always pries himself away from her and retreats to the couch or wherever is appropriate. 

The exhaustion of working fifty hours in five days seems to finally hit Brienne, and when Jaime thinks she’s surely going to think it odd that he still has his face buried against her chest, he can’t back away because her grip is too snug.

_Alright then._

“You should sleep,” he moves his lips against her skin, “You’ve earned it, keeping it all from going to shit.”

It takes her a moment, and Jaime thinks she might be asleep. If so, he’ll extract himself to turn off her lamp and cover her with the comforter.

“I’d like someone here,” she whispers in reply. “Not just someone--you. I’ve been trying to stay away from people at work, and it’s making me feel... _something_. I don’t know.”

Jaime chuckles, “It’s not like I’m a social butterfly.”

It’s not entirely the being alone that’s getting to him. Even before, he spent _a lot_ of time in solitude. It’s an unfortunate side effect of current events that Jaime’s solitary confinement coincides with a period where he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing with himself.

“It’s just...hard.”

The situation is serious if it gets his stalwart and steadfast Brienne to admit she’s struggling. Brienne, who Jaime is certain would scale a mountain alone if no one looked at her and offered assistance. They’re alike in that way, and maybe _only_ in that way. 

“You know,” he agrees, “it is. Not that I’m comparing our situations when I’m bumming on your couch, and you’re saving the world.”

“That’s...a gross exaggeration.”

“A little hyperbole won’t hurt you.”

It’s telling that Brienne’s bed is unmade. Her entire apartment was a paragon of organization when Jaime arrived. He’d been keeping the standard as best he could, but it was too intimate to cross the threshold to her room and tidy it. Right now, it’s convenient because Jaime can pull the blankets over them without moving from where he’s wrapped around her. 

Brienne kills the lamp, and then it’s just the two of them in the dark.

“I can’t sleep on my couch without curling into a ball,” Brienne says after a moment, “I’m too tall.”

He smiles in the dark, “You know, I can’t either.”

* * *

Brienne notices two things when she wakes up--it’s half past ten, which is an embarrassing, yet _wonderfully_ late hour to sleep, and that someone is cooking sausage in her kitchen. That _someone_ is definitely Jaime, unless Galladon grew thumbs and decided to see the merit of pulling his weight around the house.

She sits up, comforter hugged to her chest.

It’s a nice, sunny morning, and from the looks of it, _all_ of Jaime’s clothes are still strewn on her floor.

_Is he...cooking naked?_

Well, it’s an appealing image, but probably not the safest. In the end, the practical side of Brienne wins out, and she hopes he’s not. She supposes she can see Jaime naked whenever she desires. Brienne’s smiling about the entire notion when she walks into her kitchen a few minutes later.

Jaime isn’t nude--he’s wearing boxers and what Brienne is _certain_ is one of her King’s Landing Police Department shirts. He’s also wearing an apron Margaery gifted Brienne as a birthday gift last year; it’s covered in sunflowers.

“I was afraid you were cooking naked.”

Jaime turns from the stove, grinning, “I _almost_ wore just the apron to see your reaction, but the idea of getting hot grease on my cock didn’t seem worth it.”

“That’s...for the best.”

“You would’ve _liked_ it.”

Brienne decides silence is the best answer to that. Jaime still has that shit-eating grin, so he probably knows what she's thinking. His boxers are tight enough to see his ass either way.

Jaime hums while he cooks, a pop song she thinks Sansa would know. Brienne nurses the biggest mug of coffee she can find. In a few minutes, a plate of sausage and pancakes with a smiley face made out of banana slices and whipped cream appears on the table.

"You're out of syrup," Jaime explains.

"I didn't know I had whipped cream."

"I bought it the other day."

"Why?" Brienne's pretty sure it wasn't part of the grocery list pinned to the fridge. 

Jaime shrugs, "Impulse buy. I thought I could lick it off you."

Brienne scrunches her face up in distaste, and Jaime leans down and kisses her.

"Yeah, I decided it sounded kinda gross, too. So, pancakes!"

Her balcony _barely_ qualifies as one, but they cram into it regardless. The plates fit on her table, and the morning breeze is warm. Jaime seems unconcerned that their knees bump under the table. The pancakes are fluffy and _just_ sweet enough that the whipped cream doesn't make it overpowering. There's no boxed mix in her cabinets, which means Jaime made them from scratch. 

"Brienne, thanks."

She looks back at him from the trees lining her street, "For what?"

"For being the kind of cop someone would run _to_ instead of away from."

"It's not special--"

"--But not _so_ square that you dug up a charge or twenty to nail me with."

Brienne rolls her eyes, "You're not a bad person."

Jaime forks a bite of pancake, "And you've got a wild streak. You fucked a dude you _just_ met who, by all rights, should have a rap sheet longer than his arm. While you were _on duty_ , no less."

 _That_ makes Brienne sound reckless and unprofessional in a variety of ways.

"When you asked me to, I could just _tell_ that you..."

"What could you tell?" 

_That you needed someone on your side._ Like anyone, Jaime grows when someone is good to him.

"...Things."

 _"Fine,"_ he huffs, "I knew you were the ride or die type. That you, out of anyone I'd ever met, would have my back. I've spent my life around shitty people, and you just _shine_."

 _Fuck._ Brienne spent a long, long time building the barricade she lived behind. It was needed--for work, for her heart, and Jaime crashed through it like a wrecking ball.

"I-I do," Brienne stutters, "have your back, I mean. You can stay here, through all this _shit_ , and we'll work out the after."

Jaime smiles and eats two links of sausage before he speaks again, "You think I'd make a good cop?"

Taken aback, Brienne blinks at him, "I--you-- _what?"_

"Do you think I'd be a good cop?" he repeats. "I haven't been in school in... _gods,_ nearly two decades. It would take forever, but I bet I could do it."

"You wanna be a cop? Well, you have insider knowledge, and you don't _actually_ have a record, so…"

Jaime's grinning, and Brienne braces herself for his next words, "We could be partners! I'd rock the uniform. Maybe I shouldn't--you couldn't resist me.”

"....I definitely could."

"Lies. You'd try and fuck me in the locker room," Jaime pokes his fork in her direction suggestively. "Maybe I should scrap the idea, for your sake."

"You're... _so_ annoying."

His laugh is carefree and bright, "You know you love me."

"You know," Brienne's smiling so wide her face hurts, "I think I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, reviews are love!


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